Need You Now
by imperiousheiress
Summary: Inspired by the song, but not a songfic. When Francis shows up late for a very important date, Arthur is undoubtedly furious. Some things are said that he quickly ends up regretting.


**Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Hetalia or I would be publishing stories official instead of on a fansite, now wouldn't I?**

**Need You Now**

"Arthur, _please_!" Francis begged softly, hands raised in surrender. "You are being unreasonable!"

"No, I don't think I am!" the Englishman shouted back at his lover. There were furious tears in his eyes that threatened to spill over any second and he was wielding a wooden spoon dangerously.

"J-Just listen to me!"

"I don't want to hear your bloody excuses!"

Arthur had every right to be upset and they both knew it. He had been planning this dinner for nearly a month, and the circumstances had been years in the making. It was _supposed_ to be special. It was _supposed _to be perfect. Because that day marked their being together for five years. A tear slipped down the Brit's cheek as he once again recalled the promise that his lover had made him five years ago to the day.

* * *

_"This will never work," Arthur huffed, his breath materializing in the cool, crisp September air. He and the man next to him were both bundled tight in heavy jackets, wearing boots in the thin layer of snow that crunched beneath their feet as they walked. He envied the fact that his companion had been smart enough to remember a scarf._

_"Not in a million years, frog…"_

_"What makes you say that _mon cher_?" the Frenchman chuckled, prying one of Arthur's gloved hands away from the other and holding it in his. "It has so far, _oui_?"_

_"_So far_…" the Brit scoffed. He looked up at the taller blonde with an expression between disturbed and upset. "How the bloody hell can you not wear any gloves?"_

_"I'm fine, _Angleterre_…" Francis smiled in amusement, recognizing Arthur's own little way of expressing his concern for the Frenchman's well-being. "Now, what makes you think that _we_ will not work?"_

_"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that all we've ever done is fought…" Arthur growled, voice heavy with sarcasm. Francis' smile just widened and he brought his partner's hand to his lips, planting a light kiss over the fabric._

_Arthur blushed an even deeper shade of red, distinguishable even from the pink shade that the chill had brushed onto his cheeks. He looked down at his feet as they walked together hand in hand. It was true that "so far" had been about twelve hours, since they had met for breakfast, and neither could deny that they had already argued in that time. The Englishman couldn't help but worry. He really did love Francis, of that he was sure. He had loved him for a long time, with all his heart. All couples fought, sure… But did they disagree just a tad too much?_

_He didn't even realise that Francis had stopped walking until his arm was wrenched painfully away from his body. He froze where he was and glanced back worriedly, only to be pulled to the Frenchman's chest. In one smooth movement, the soft blue scarf that Arthur had been so envious of was wrapped around both their necks. Arthur couldn't stifle his quiet gasp at the sudden proximity, blushing._

_"You want to know what I think, _oui_?" Francis asked seriously, blue, blue eyes searching across Arthur's face. Suddenly losing his voice, the shorter man simply nodded and stared up at the other's perfect face, willing him to continue._

_"I am going to make you a promise,_ mon amour_," he began again after a small moment of thought, smiling slightly. "We will wait and see how things go… See if we work. If we are still together, and still as madly in love, five years from today then… Well, if not, you're free to leave me forever, no strings attached, no pieces left behind. But if we are, then I will ask you to marry me. How is that for a promise?"_

_"I-It sounds nice, frog…" Arthur agreed, finding his voice again around the butterflies in his stomach. He gave Francis, then, the brightest smile the Frenchman had ever seen him present. He was sure it wouldn't be the last._

* * *

That had been then.

Arthur had never, _ever_ imagined that he would actually be leaving his Frenchman that day. He'd never expected that the best five years of his life could actually come to an end.

"Arthur, _please_."

"Shut up!" the Brit shouted. "You bloody stood me up, Francis! Today of all days! I didn't even get a call! You've _never _done that before!"

"B-But I can _explain_…!" Francis whimpered, ducking nimbly out of the way as the wooden spoon let fly at his head. His eyes were wide, the blue depths reflecting every shade of pain. "Just let me-"

"N-No!" Arthur cut him off, taking a moment to harshly rub away the tears that were escaping. "I told you, I don't want to hear it!"

"I-I was only out-"

"You were out with those stupid bad friends of yours all day! You couldn't have come back to spend time with me for just a couple of hours?! Obviously I'm not a priority! I'm not as _important_ to you as those bastards!" the Englishman accused, looking around for something else to throw.

"_Non!_" Francis protested futilely, dodging a bowl as it shattered against the door behind him. "Get out! I never want to see you again!"

"You know that's not true, _Angleterre_! You're upset. You don't mean it…" Francis attempted soothingly, trying to talk some sense into his younger lover.

Arthur stalked by and wrenched the door open with a ban, making Francis inadvertently flinch. He grabbed onto his arm and shoved him outside, making him trip momentarily. When riled up, the shorter blonde's strength was impossible for Francis to resist.

"Fuck off and go marry one of _them_ instead then, you bleeding bastard…!"

Francis stared at him in disbelief, his own tears starting to prickle from behind his eyes. He couldn't comprehend what was happening. He couldn't _really _be getting kicked out of Arthur's house… on the day of their fifth anniversary, watching the Brit cry and knowing with a twist of guilt that he'd caused it… Could he?

"C-Call me when you want to know the real reason I was late," he said slowly, hardly realising he was saying it. He could think of nothing else.

"Never."

With that, Arthur slammed the door in Francis' face, leaving him in the chilly September air, alone and broken, praying silently that he would come back.

It never happened.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep_

Busy. Why?

"Damnit…" Arthur swore softly into the phone. Who the hell could Francis be calling? At this time of night…? He glanced at the clock again, reminding himself exactly what time of night it was. Nearly midnight; eleven fifty-six, to be exact. He set the phone down next to him and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, taking another swig of the bottle in his hand.

Francis was probably on the phone with one of those damned bad friends of his, asking for advice… Or asking when they wanted to hook up now that Arthur was out of his life. No. Stupid. Don't think like that. _He misses you too_.

The Englishman wiped the tears from his eyes, cheeks burning from the constant rubbing he had done in the last six hours. He had been such an idiot earlier that evening. Francis had never missed a single date. Even if he was going to be late, he always, _always_, called ahead. He _had_ to have had a good reason for not showing up when they'd planned. Especially on that day.

Arthur shouldn't have kicked him out. He should have listened to what the Frenchman had to say. Should have… Could have… If he _would _have, then his only love wouldn't be slipping through his fingers.

"Francis, please… Please, please…" he begged hopelessly into the air. No one was there to hear him. No one was going to give him any comfort.

Then again, only one person _could._

And he wasn't picking up his phone.

Arthur stared at his house phone, gripping the neck of the bottle of gin until his knuckles where white. His gaze was desperate, praying for it to ring… As if that would really work. In the state he was, he wanted to believe that it might, if he was desperate enough.

Amazingly, the phone came to life a second later, almost as if by sheer force of will. The Brit made a mad lunge towards the table on which it sat, hands shaking as he held the device like it was made of glass. His eyes filled with tears as he checked the caller ID, begging for it to be Francis.

Of course not.

"Hey, Iggy-!"

"_Alfred_! What the fucking hell are you thinking, calling me?!" Arthur screamed instantly at the American on the other end, voice breaking down as he began to sob. "Damnit! You bloody bastard… You f-fucking git… I can't believe you m-made me think that h-he was actually going to call! Of course not! W-What are you going to do, say 'I told you so'? Fine! G-Go right ahead! Y-You were right, after all! He's not coming back, is he…? I-Is he?!"

"Whoa! Arthur, hold up! I-"

Alfred never got a chance to finish, however, as Arthur then slammed the phone down, sending the batteries flying out across the carpet. He sat for a moment, sobbing uncontrollably, before he realised what he'd done. His eyes widened in horror and he ignored the gin that had been spilt everywhere in his mad dash for the phone. He scrambled across the floor and put the batteries in their rightful place before laying back on his back, hugging the device to his chest. He breathed a huge sigh of relief.

_Francis_.

Francis couldn't call if the phone was broken. Arthur couldn't answer. Nothing would become any better from his misplaced fit of rage. He would have to be more careful… He couldn't answer the phone again for anyone other than Francis. Who knew what he'd do next time? Yelling at Alfred had, however, made him feel just a _little _better… It was fractionally, though, and hardly made a difference in his attitude.

Oh god… Where was Francis when he really needed him…?

* * *

"You know, Lovi and I fight all the time…"

"So do we, but not like this!" Francis sighed into the phone. He was lying in a hopeless lump on his couch. After trying to call Arthur about three dozen times, he'd turned to the only person he could think of to give him any potentially useful advice. So far, that idea wasn't really working out.

"Arthur has never kicked me out before! I _told _you that he would be upset!" he complained, tone slightly accusatory.

"_Los __ciento__, mi amigo,_" Antonio responded sincerely, apology laden with guilt. "I really didn't think you'd be _that _late. Those stores weren't small, though."

"I know… I should not be blaming _tu_. But we've never fought like this, not for centuries, and _mon__ amour_ _always_ calls back right away!" Francis despaired.

"Ah! Well maybe you should try calling him again instead of talking to me…" Antonio suggested. "If things don't go well, I'll be sitting right by my phone, ¿_Sí_?

"_O-Oui_," Francis sighed. "You are probably right, _mon ami_. _Merci._"

"Be sure to let me know how it goes!"

The Spaniard hung up on the other end. Francis sat up and set down his wine bottle, looking over at the blinking receiver. He'd gotten home late after taking a stop at a bar on his way to about a dozen messages. Slightly intoxicated and not wanting to have to worry about anything but making up with Arthur, he'd opened a bottle of wine he'd brought home and ignored them… But now? He had the sudden urge to listen to them all, like he had been missing something important.

He reached over and pushed play, hearing the automated voice announce that the first and earliest one was from around eight that evening, about two hours after he'd left Arthur's. The irksome American accent was unmistakeable.

"Look, Francis… I'll make this quick because I'm sure you don't want to listen to me," Alfred began. "News travels fast. Igg- er, Arthur won't come out of his house. He's sitting in there in the dark, just crying… He's really hurting. I really, _really_ think you should try and talk to him. Thanks."

The Frenchman was just about to stop the messages. If they were all like this, then he _really_ didn't need to hear it. But the next message made him freeze.

"Francis… I know I said I wasn't going to call, but…" Arthur stopped to sigh, voice sounding tired and worn. "I-I really need to talk to you. I was stupid. If you're not still mad at me, please call back."

As the Frenchman listened, the messages went on in the same manner, every one from Arthur. They became less dignified and more drunken with each new request. The pain in the Brit's voice was unbearable, and Francis almost wanted to cry. Where had he been when his Arthur needed him? Lying about, feeling sorry for himself…!

The last message was more than he could take.

"F-Francis, _please_…" the broken voice begged between sobs. "I need you. I-I'm so sorry. I-I love you. P-Please come, please call… _Anything._ I-I need you. I was being so stupid a-and I know you would n-never forget. You were right, I-I didn't mean anything I said. I miss you so much…"

Francis' heart just about shattered at the lost tone of his lover… Alone, anguished… And likely he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep all night. Before he knew that Arthur loved him, the Frenchman had been in a bad place. He'd secretly sworn to kill himself if it turned out that the Brit really had no feelings for him. Not that he really could have gone through with it, of course. He had been to afraid to try and, being a nation, it would have done him no substantial harm anyway.

If Arthur was really feeling as utterly devastated as he sounded… Francis couldn't bear it. It would have done him good to have kept track of time earlier. This _was_ all his fault.

So he made up his mind, right then and there.

* * *

Arthur glanced at the clock from where he was lying on the floor, his red and white fleece blanket draped lazily over him. It was just past four thirty… He must have drifted off to sleep whilst crying a while ago. His cordless phone was still laying against his arm. Slowly, he rolled onto his side and sat up, grabbing the device protectively. He suddenly felt a moment of panic.

Francis. Had he called? Had Arthur actually _missed_ it?! He pulled himself to his feet using the couch, hurrying over to the side table on which the answering machine rested.

No new messages.

The Englishman sighed in relief. Good. He would have shot himself if he'd missed a call from his Francis… Hah. _His. _The Frenchman hardly belonged to him anymore, Arthur reminded himself. He'd given that right away when he'd shoved him out the door. It was funny, really. They were always so protective of each other publically, though Francis moreso than Arthur. Yet, somehow, he had just let his lover walk away… _Forced_ him to, really.

For a moment, the Brit had the urge to pick up the phone again and try calling. It would be easy. He had Francis on speed-dial, naturally. One press of a button, and… No. That was stupid. It was late and he was probably asleep, if he hadn't been the last time Arthur tried calling. Plus, he was tired and half-drunk. God only knew what he'd say next. Tired… But utterly unable to sleep.

He slowly walked over to the couch and picked the blanket off the ground before lazily falling onto the piece of furniture. He clutched the wool to his chest momentarily before burying his face in it. When he breathed in, he cold still make out his own scent mixed with Francis'. They sat together under that blanket and watched movies every Friday. Depending on the movie, or the previous week's events, Arthur would sometimes fall asleep on Francis' lap and he would sit there patiently and nod off as well so as not to wake him.

The Englishman closed his eyes, though he still felt wide awake. At least he could sit still and get away from his alcohol this way. He hadn't been in solitary darkness for a minute when he heard the wiggling of the doorknob. Probably Alfred, he figured, wanting to make a fuss over him… If there was anything he wanted less at that moment, he couldn't think o fit. So he naturally ignored the sound.

… Until he heard a key turn in the lock.

Alfred didn't have a key. Arthur was a master lock pick and he knew what a key sounded like, compared to the clinks of lock picking tools. And only one other person had a key, as far as he knew….

The Brit sat up slowly, holding his breath and hardly daring to hope. He swung his legs over the side of the couch as the door creaked softly and opened just a crack. He pinched himself. It wasn't a dream, but could it still really be real?

"Arthur? Ah, he wasn't kidding; you really are sitting in here in the dark…"

The familiar thick French accent made Arthur's heart flutter. It couldn't really be… Could it?

"F-Francis?" the Englishman stammered uncertainly. A moment later, he was clinging to Francis' messy white shirt, burying his face into his chest. The Frenchman stumbled back slightly at Arthur's attack.

"Y-You bastard!" he accused, sobbing uncontrollably once again. You could have called! W-Why the bloody hell didn't you a-answer?! Idiot!"

"A-Arthur, I _tried _to-" Francis began. He was stopped sharply as Arthur detected the scent of alcohol on his lover's breath with the words spoken so closely to his face and exploded again.

"Ohmygod, have you been drinking?!" he gasped, terror shining in his green eyes as they finally lifted to meet Francis' blue ones. The guilty look on his face instantly gave the answer away.

'A-And you _drove_ all the way here?!" Arthur reprimanded. "Y-You could've killed yourself! What the fuck were you thinking?! I'll tell you- you _weren't!_"

"If I didn't come to see you, it wouldn't have mattered anyway…!" Francis finally managed to get in through the Brit's incessant raving. The shorter blonde finally stopped, staring up at him in silence as a fresh wave of tears spilled over onto his rosy cheeks.

"F-Francis… You-"

The Frenchman put a finger to his lover's lips, shushing him with a soft smile.

"You wanted to know why I really came in, _oui mon lapin_? He asked. Arthur just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "We've had so many close calls in the last five years and I was always scared that you would never come back…"

"B-But, what-"

"I am not finished!" Francis sighed, smile widening all the same. "Anyways… It did not take me long to realise that I was no longer going to be able to live without you, and whatever I'd been doing before wasn't really living. I think I knew that even before we were together. I probably shouldn't have waited so long, but I had to be sure. And it all had to be perfect. This isn't exactly what I imagined this moment being like, but…"

Arthur's eyes widened as he finally realised what Francis was saying. He got down on one knee before the younger blonde and took a huge breath before continuing.

"Arthur Kirkland… I have been madly in love with you since the day I first saw you, though I may have been slow to see that. I have always dreamed that one day I could really have the chance to love you, and I've never been happier since it became a reality. As I promised you five years ago today… Well, er, yesterday now, technically…" he paused and took a breath before reaching into the pocket of his pants and pulling out a small black velvet box. The lid opened with a small 'pop', revealing a beautiful silver ring, the emerald inset matching Arthur's eyes perfectly.

"Please, _please_ marry me."

Arthur's hand flew to his mouth and he nodded, a new kind of tears falling softly onto the carpet where he stood. It took a moment for him to find his voice, and when he did, he threw himself on Francis, momentarily knocking the wind out of him.

"Yes! Yes _of course_…" he choked out, letting the Frenchman slip the ring onto his finger before flinging his arms back around his new fiance's neck. They kissed, the motion short and sweet, before Arthur buried his face in Francis' shoulder, smiling for the first time since the previous day.

"I love you so much…" he muttered.

Francis yawned and slowly manoeuvred to his side on the welcoming carpet, pulling Arthur along with him, arms locked around his stubborn Brit.

"And I you."

That was how they fell asleep together on the floor.

And also why Francis was able to call Antonio the next morning and tell him that _oui_, things had certainly gone well.


End file.
